Half-Empty Rooms
by janthelibrarian
Summary: Sherlock receives two invitations to return home. One is from the sniper he's been chasing, the other is to the Morstan-Watson wedding, and he doesn't know which one frightens him more. Rated M for reference to alcohol abuse and suicide and implied future Johnlock. Just a little something to atone for any grief I caused with "No Mistakes."
1. The Wedding

Exactly one year after he fell from the roof of St. Bart's, Sherlock came home. The date was inconsequential to him. If he had been ready a week ago, even a day ago, he would not have waited. If he had needed more time to be sure it was safe to return he would have taken it. But today was the day, and even he could see a certain poetry in that. He may even have smiled, if not for the paper crumbled in his fist.

The church was not large or ornate, exactly the kind of place he would have expected John to choose. If he had ever given thought to his best friend getting married.

"Morstan-Watson Wedding," the sign outside proclaimed. It was inevitable, he supposed. And he should probably have thanked Mycroft for the warning. Instead of slapping him. He glanced at the paper again. Not a real invitation, of course. People didn't invite ghosts to their weddings. But it had the necessary information to get Sherlock to the right place at the right time. What he did next was up to him.

After stepping into the church he took a moment to regard his reflection in the glass. The beard was all right but the wig needed some adjusting. He pushed the glasses up his nose and reminded himself to slouch. While unlikely this Mary would recognize him, it would do no good to have her describe him to John later and raise suspicions. Satisfied, he made his way to the basement area where he knew Miss Morstan would be finishing her preparations.

"You look lovely, dear," he wheezed.

"Thank you," she said immediately, even before turning to see who had spoken. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"An old friend of John's. We've lost touch over the years but I happened to be passing through town when I heard…about this."

"Oh! He'll be so happy. John is such a remarkable man. I wish he had more friends about him." She looked as though she were about to say more, but a voice floated down from the stairwell informing her she had ten more minutes.

"Please, do stay for the reception. We've had a few last-minute cancellations so there's plenty of room. And I'm sure John would welcome the company."

Sherlock was amazed. He'd barged in on this woman on her wedding day, and she was inviting him to stay. He gave himself just a moment to deduce her, though he had sworn he wouldn't. He tried to see her as John would. Kind. Giving. Not entirely idiotic. Attractive.

So much like John.

"Thank you. But if I can't, don't mention it to John. I'll get in touch with him another time."

"Certainly," she agreed, but her face showed her disappointment. She wanted so much for John to have another familiar, friendly face here today. "I'm sorry, but I have to go. It was very nice to meet you, Mr…"

"Smith," Sherlock replied in what was certainly the worst lie of his life. How could he have forgotten a name? "Oswald Smith."

Sherlock left her and made his way back up the stairs. He should go, walk away now and leave John to the life he'd always wanted, the kind Sherlock had prevented him from having. But he'd come so far. One little glimpse of the man he'd shared a flat with—shared a life with however briefly—couldn't hurt. Couldn't hurt John, anyway. His disguise was convincing enough, and John would have far too much else on his mind even if he did notice a slight resemblance in the strange old man in the back of the church.

Having convinced himself, Sherlock found a seat far enough away from other guests to discourage conversation in the few moments before the ceremony began. This half of the church was rather sparsely populated, compared to the bride's side. He gathered his courage and looked toward the front of the room.

John was gorgeous. He stood alone in a suit that fit him perfectly. The alone part bothered Sherlock. Where was his best man? Surely he had some friend from work or uni who would stand up with him. Why not Lestrade? Perhaps, Sherlock reasoned, it was to be a small ceremony with no attendants on either side. He could accept that better than the doctor keeping the position open for a friend who could not be there. Even though, technically, he was.

The music swelled, and Sherlock rose with the others to watch as the bride's parents walked down the aisle arm in arm. A moment later his earlier hope was dashed when an ungainly young woman in a red dress followed them. _The maid of honor. Probably the bride's younger sister._ He could have accepted one of the handbills the ushers were distributing, but that would have left him nothing to deduce, nothing to distract him.

The music changed and Mary Morstan appeared in the doorway. She all but glowed as she made her way demurely toward John. Her future husband. His former best friend. Sherlock could not find any fault with her, much as he tried. She reached the altar and stood a few feet from John.

That wasn't right. Sherlock had not been to many weddings in his life, but he was quite sure the bride and groom should stand closer. Didn't they need to hold hands or something? And John wasn't even looking at Mary. He continued to gaze down the aisle, waiting, it seemed, for one more addition to the party.

The music changed again and another bride graced the doorway. This one not as young or as beautiful or nearly as graceful, but her face showed the same kind of love he had seen on Mary's. Sherlock shook his head slightly. Surely English marriage laws had not changed that much in the year he'd been away. What was he missing?

The second bride reached the altar and John lifted her veil and kissed her cheek before stepping back. Into the best man's position.

Sherlock thought back to that first cab ride he had shared with John, during which he had impressed the doctor all out of proportion with his simple deductions.

_"Did I get anything wrong?"_ He had asked, quite sure he hadn't.

_"Harry is short for Harriet."_

Sherlock nearly laughed at making the same mistake twice. He did have to sit down quite suddenly.

His sister. Of course. Mary Morstan was marrying John's sister.


	2. The Graveyard

Chapter Two – The Graveyard

John gazed across the room packed with guests bustling about, eating, chatting and laughing. The place was packed to near capacity, but it felt empty to him. All rooms felt half-empty now. He felt half-empty.

He was happy for Harry though. In the ever-twisting cycle of their relationship, she had finally picked the right time to take on the role of protector which he had played for far too long. John couldn't even remember why he'd called her. Maybe he hadn't, and someone had done it on his behalf. All he knew is that when he needed her the most she was there.

She had been sober for nearly a year now, becoming whole in order to patch John back together. Only this time, it seemed to be sticking, and the reason for that was obvious.

Harry said something and he tried to focus. He was, after all, the best man and had certain duties. He caught a waiter's attention and told him it was time for the toast, reminding him to bring a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling cider for the brides.

John was still amazed that Harry and Mary had met at an AA meeting. The pretty woman who was now his new sister-in-law had a past that was less violent, but no less destructive than his sister's. Or his own. How easily he could have slipped back into his old habits a year ago.

One year ago. John was sure Harry had picked the date deliberately. He had been so caught up in planning and coordinating the wedding the last few weeks he'd barely had time to grieve. But the formalities would be over soon and he would be allowed to slip away. It wasn't so much that he wanted to, he needed to.

Soon ended up being nearly an hour later. He was tempted to let himself go to pieces right there in the cab, but held on tightly. Then, without quite knowing why, he asked the cabbie to stop and let him out.

John had no interest in continuing Sherlock's work, though he had occasionally agreed to give Greg his medical opinions on a case. So he wasn't sure what prompted him to join the crowd gathered around the Adair house. The case was intriguing—man found dead inside a locked and empty room but clearly murdered. Just Sherlock's sort of thing.

John caught sight of Lestrade and lowered his eyes. He didn't mind the detective inspector's companionship, but not today. Quickly he turned to make his retreat, and nearly collided with an older gentleman standing, in John's opinion, far too close.

"Sorry, mate."

The man had dropped some papers and stooped quickly to pick them up, muttering about people needing to watch where they were going. John got only a brief glimpse of his face, but he seemed oddly familiar. A patient, perhaps. Or someone he saw at the grocer's on occasion. He didn't give it much thought, realizing suddenly his need to get his task over with as soon as possible so he could return to the relative security of his flat.

The cemetery was nearly half a mile away, but he didn't want to have to try to catch another cab. The sun was just setting as he reached the too-familiar gravestone.

"Hello, Sherlock. It's been a year. Did you know? Of course you know."

John sank to his knees and simply reached out, trying to find once again that feeling of connection he had been able to grasp just once since Sherlock's fall. That first time he and Mrs. Hudson had visited after the funeral he was positive he could sense his best friend, but not once since.

Today was different, and he sighed with the peace it filled him.

"I guess I've said everything I need to say." But that was wrong. There was one thing he hadn't said. The most important thing. "You know, I'm still waiting for that miracle. Any time would be fine. Right now. Next year. Fifty years in the future. I'll still be waiting, believing if anyone could do it, it would be you."

John pulled himself up and touched the gravestone once. "Right then."

"He must have meant a lot to you."

The old man from the crime scene was standing some distance away, and he couldn't see him clearly in the rapidly failing light. But that voice.

"I wanted to apologize for before," the man continued.

"No harm done. Just two people crashing together by accident."

"Exactly. Still, I shouldn't have said all that."

"I'm sorry, but do I know you?" John was beginning to feel a bit anxious in a way he couldn't define. Not scared. More like impatient.

"You used to. And I'm very sorry. I want you to know that, John. I'm more sorry than you could imagine that I had to lie."

"Lie?"

"It was all a lie. Everything I said."

He took a step closer and John fought his automatic reaction to back away. Another step. Another. He was just an arm's length away now, and the peculiar sense of near-recognition washed over John again.

"Even the part where I said goodbye," he finished. He yanked at the beard at the same time he straightened to his full height. One hand removed the glasses while the other discarded the wig.

"Sherlock?"

And John fainted.


	3. An Explanation

Even after all this time, John Watson was able to amaze Sherlock Holmes. Passing out had been number fourteen on his list of possible reactions, so low he considered it a statistical improbability. His surprise held him in check for only the shortest of moments and then he was at the doctor's side, hauling him into a sitting position and supporting him from behind.

John came around shortly, but his eyes remained slightly unfocused. He shifted around until he was facing the detective, both of them on their knees in the rapidly cooling grass.

"Sherlock? It's really you?"

"Yes, John. I'm back."

The shorter man reached out a tentative hand to touch Sherlock's cheek. At the contact a huge grin crossed his face, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he fainted again.

Luckily Sherlock was close enough to catch him this time. Worried as he was about his friend, he found himself chuckling. Passing out twice hadn't even made his list. He eased John to the ground this time and massaged his temples, allowing him to wake slowly, and fully, this time.

"John. I'm flattered to have this kind of effect on you, but we really should get going. Can you walk at all?"

"Walk? You're alive. If you wanted I could fly."

"Fly? Don't be ridiculous John. That's not…Oh! That's from that movie you like so much."

"That's right. I'm surprised you remember."

"I remember everything."

"No, you delete anything that's not of importance," John insisted.

"Nothing to do with you falls into that category."

John's smile faltered, and suddenly he was pushing himself up, away from Sherlock and shaking his head viciously. "No. No. That's what I'd want you say. So this can't be real. I'm dreaming. Or dead. I thought I'd decided not to do that."

He had worked himself into a neat little panic that was quickly spilling over to Sherlock. He lunged forward and caught John by the front of his shirt.

"Calm down, John. It's all right."

"Of course you'd say that."

"John," Sherlock sighed, raising his hands to frame his friend's face. "If this was all in your head, and it was exactly the way you wanted it to be, what is the one thing that would ruin it all? What could happen right now that you would never intentionally put into your own fantasy?"

He only had to wait a couple of heartbeats until John found it.

"Yes. Exactly. Stand up now. Look over there."

John did as directed, following where Sherlock pointed until he spied the dark car waiting a short but respectable distance away.

"Mycroft?" The name was an insult in his mouth. "Why the hell is he here?"

"Because this is real, John. And we need to go. Please. We're far too exposed here. Let's go home."

"So you're not dead?"

"Never was." Sherlock's attention slipped as the relief washed over him, which is why he didn't see the punch coming. He should have. It was number two on his list.

"Right, then. Home."

The flat was both comfortingly familiar and frighteningly alien to Sherlock's senses. On the surface, little had changed—furniture in the same positions, books still on the shelves, violin in the corner. His equipment was cleared from the table, but poked out from the tops of boxes in the corner. The subtle changes, however, were alarming.

The place was neat, tidy in way John had never managed when Sherlock had lived here no matter how hard he tried. It even smelled clean. No traces of chemicals or partially-decomposed body parts wafted in from the kitchen. No gunpowder residue clung to the walls. But most shockingly, Sherlock could smell nothing of himself, and very little of John

Sherlock understood the cause immediately. No one had lived here for a year. John still called it home, but it was nothing more than a place for him to be while he waited. John had not been living, merely existing.

The doctor prepared tea while Sherlock readjusted to the surroundings. They hadn't said a word on the way here, though he knew John was bursting with questions. After closing the curtains tightly they took to their accustomed positions and he let John ask. Sherlock answered everything. Not as much as he could. Not as much as Mycroft though was wise. Completely. He explained Moriarty's final demand and the consequences should he not comply. He detailed his time dismantling what remained of Moriarty's web. He told him honestly of his search for the three snipers and the manner in which he had apprehended and disposed of two of them.

"So one's still out there." John appeared calm, but Sherlock knew he understood which one of the three remained. "But you came back anyway. Why?"

"The Adair case." Sherlock thought it would have been obvious.

"There have been scores of juicy murders in the last year. You didn't come back for any of them." He stopped short of adding _or me_, but Sherlock felt the unspoken words hanging heavily between them. "What's so special about Adair?"

"Nothing. He was a card cheat. His partner found out Adair was keeping more than his share of the profits. Idiot took out an internet ad to hire a hit-man."

"But he wasn't shot."

"Not by bullets," Sherlock agreed.

"What then? Poison darts? Rubber bullets? Laser beam?"

"Sonic ray."

"No such thing," John argued.

"Yes and no. One of the semi-legitimate businesses Moriarty had in place to cover his criminal activities was weapons development. Though it was never traced directly back to him, the government recently rejected a proposal for exactly this type of weapon. It would have transmitted a sonic blast that could take out an entire platoon or target a single man. The pulse would stop the heart, leaving the victims immobilized until the victors could secure them and administer a shot of epinephrine to restart the heart."

John looked slightly sick. "The potential damage…"

"Was unacceptable. Hence the rejection of the design. Of course, I don't believe it was ever intended to actually be proposed, especially considering the scientist who brought it forward was found dead a short time later. He probably had no idea who his real employer was or the true intention of the weapon. Likely he came up with the revival solution on his own."

"So you know who did it, why, and how. I don't see the mystery."

"You will if you think."

John opened his mouth to protest, but caught himself. Sherlock loved watching John go into his own mind, sort through the details and slot them into place. His eyes zipped back and forth then stilled. He gasped and looked toward the window. "He's here? The one you haven't got yet?"

"His name is Sebastian Moran, and he's sending me a message. We've been chasing each other across the world for months now. Apparently he took a page out of his master's book about the best way to reach me."

"Me."

"I'm sorry, John."

"Stop that, Sherlock. Stop that right now. We will get through this. You probably even have a plan. And I bet it's brilliant. The only thing you will ever have to apologize to me for again is leaving me. Which you won't have to do because I won't let you leave me. Never again. Tell me that brilliant brain of yours can understand something so simple."

John had leaned forward during his heated little speech, and was now just inches from Sherlock's own face. He closed the gap to answer John's question in the only way he knew how. He meant to only brush his lips against the other man's lightly, to let that simple contact express gratitude, seek understanding, communicate all those sentiments he had tried so hard to deny he felt. But John's hands went to his neck, pulling them closer and deepening the kiss. Sherlock felt John's reply there, expressing his own appreciation, seeking assurance, and communicating all those sentiments Sherlock had read so clearly on his beloved friend's face which the older man would never say out loud.

The kiss was gentle yet profound, and as platonic as two men who care deeply about each other could possibly share.


	4. Waiting to Die

Chapter Four – Waiting to Die

John shifted slightly to adjust the weight of the lead vest, succeeding in finding a position somehow even more uncomfortable and managing to knock off the silly looking helmet in the process. The plan was to wait until Moran showed up to shoot Sherlock. John would activate the machine Sherlock assured him would disrupt the sonic waves and signal to Lestrade, who had men watching at all of the seven possible locations where the sniper could get a good view into the flat.

Despite Sherlock's assurance the machine would prevent any possible damage, he insisted John wear the extra protection. Because John's final job was to revive the detective if needed. Of course, John had his own plan. If this ended badly for Sherlock, he would not simply wait and watch. He would not relive that terrible moment at Bart's again. And he would never, ever, allow his best friend to die alone.

The only upside was that until Moran showed up all John had to do was watch the detective make himself visible by tramping back and forth and playing his violin in front of the now open window. He liked to watch Sherlock. And he definitely could use the time to think.

Once all of his questions had been answered, the detective started in with his own about the year he'd been out of John's life. And naturally, he had zeroed in on the one thing John hoped he'd avoid.

"You said, '_I thought I'd decided not to do this_.'"

Since it wasn't technically a question, John decided to ignore it. He feigned an interest in double-checking the defibrillator which had been delivered, along with the various pieces of Sherlock's machine, in secret to the flat throughout the day. Sherlock himself was busy assembling his part, and John had hoped it would distract him.

"At the cemetery. When you thought you were dead. Why did you say that?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. I was in shock."

"John, tell me. Please?"

"I considered it. At first. But I changed my mind."

"Why?"

"Jesus, Sherlock. Are you disappointed I had a change of heart?"

The younger man had given him a look of such heart-breaking confusion he regretted the words instantly. "I'm sorry. I know you didn't mean it that way. I just…it's in the past. I doesn't matter."

"I only want to know so I can be sure you won't change your mind again."

"I won't." Sherlock hadn't pressed, but he also hadn't looked away. In the end John had felt more compelled by his silence than any demand he could have made.

"After you…" Died? Jumped? Fell? "…went away, everyone thought the worst of you. It didn't take long for Mycroft and Lestrade to clear most of it up. But as you are so fond of pointing out, people are idiots. They were willing to believe the worst without a shred of evidence, but when the truth was proved beyond a shadow of a doubt they denied it.

"There were people who never stopped believing in you, Sherlock. Lestrade didn't doubt you, just had to do his job. Mrs. Hudson and Molly. Mycroft. But none of them knew the whole truth. Only me. I was with you from the beginning, from the very first time you heard that dreadful name. I was there on each case, all those days and weeks in between cases when I saw a person you guarded from everyone else. I knew the real you. And if I was gone, you would be too."

John hadn't realized he was crying until Sherlock, having crossed the distance between them unnoticed, wiped a tear from his cheek with surprising gentleness.

"Thank you, John. For keeping me alive."

"You did the same for me."

"Yes, but you didn't know that at the time."

"I meant before…" John still hadn't been able to look up at that face, to allow those eyes to see beyond the words he knew were coming out all wrong.

"Ah. I see."

"Do you?"

Sherlock had tipped up John's chin, forcing them to look at each other. Observe each other. And John knew that Sherlock really did see. He saw, and understood, and accepted.

A text from Mycroft had broken that spell, sending them back to work with feverish speed. Moran had been sighted headed in their direction. That had been nearly three hours ago. Three hours of waiting for his best friend to be killed. In front of him. Again.

He flipped the switch. Of course, nothing happened except the little light coming on. But even that little bit of reassurance was welcome.

"Don't play with it, John?"

"Are you sure this thing is going to work?"

"The design is sound."

"Adair suffered massive trauma to all of his internal organs, including swelling of the brain. What if he sets his sonic screwdriver to hit you in the head instead of the heart?"

"It's not a screwdriver, it's a…Oh. Yes, I remember. But you don't need to worry. The stonework will reflect the waves, and I'm presenting him with a very small target. He'll have to take what he can get."

"But what if he decides to go old school and shoot you with a regular old rifle?"

"Bullet proof vest."

"It doesn't cover your head."

"Limited target space, John. Do try to keep up."

"He could just barge in here and put a gun to your head."

"That's why you have your Browning."

"Yes, but what if…"

"John, please." Sherlock's patience was clearly wearing thin with John's predictions of complications. "There are over one hundred men and women spread out across a mile radius all around this building. Moran will not get away. He will be caught."

He didn't say it, but John heard it anyway. _Even if we don't survive._ Strangely, John was okay with that. So long as they were together. All or nothing. Both or neither.

"Okay. Right."

Sherlock smiled, one of those rare genuine smiles John was sure he alone was allowed to witness. "Thank you, J-."

The detective dropped suddenly to his knees. Even though he had been waiting for this exact moment, only years of training both as a doctor and a soldier permitted John to act with the lightning quick reflexes necessary. He flipped the switch, pushed the button to call Lestrade, and dove to his friend's side.

Sherlock was rigid, his face frozen in a mask of unbearable pain. John felt his pulse, weak and slowing. And he wasn't breathing. Cursing, John pulled open the younger man's shirt and yanked mercilessly at the straps on the vest. He was certainly bruising the delicate skin below, but he didn't care. His fingers seemed thick and useless as he worked, finally getting down to the white t-shirt underneath which he ripped unceremoniously in two. The paddles were too far away. He couldn't bear to leave Sherlock for even the few seconds it would take to get them, so he began chest compressions, listening every other minute with his ear against the alabaster chest until, on the third round, he felt strong and slender fingers slide into his hair and hold him in place.

"God, Sherlock."

He coughed weakly. "I know."

John raised himself and straddled the detective's hips, resting his hand on either side of that nest of dark curls. "You can't ever leave me again? Do you understand? No matter what happens, no matter what needs to be done, we do it together. For better or for worse."

Sherlock chuckled, and it took John just a moment to realize he had unintentionally echoed the wedding vows he had heard spoken early that day. "For richer or poorer? In sickness and in health?"

"And not even death shall part us," John finished. He leaned down and kissed his best friend. It wasn't a kiss that implied romance or sex, just a way to seal a promise. The exhaustion caught him then, and he resumed his prone position with his head on Sherlock's chest.

"If people see us like this, John, they'll talk for sure."

"Let them talk. Maybe we'll even give them something to talk about."


End file.
